


But the Lord knows--

by RembrandtsWife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Inspired by Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever heard a tune you just can't get out of your head? It's driving John crazy....</p>
            </blockquote>





	But the Lord knows--

**Author's Note:**

> So, after a number of false starts, this turns out to be my first _Sherlock_ fic. *scratches head* Musically inspired fluff, yeah, that describes a lot of my fanfic output. For the tune that inspired this story, listen [here](http://youtu.be/W_wHAJ41fG0). Thanks to A.J. Hall for swift and certain beta, including explaining what Chinese food is like in the U.K.

_I know who is sick, I know who is sorry  
I know who I'll kiss, but the Lord knows who I'll marry_

God, what a night.

John rounded the corner after Sherlock, puffing hard. A normal night out with Mike Stamford meant couple of pints, nothing he couldn't sleep off, but last night.... Last night Mike had rounded up a crew of their old mates from uni, people John hadn't heard from or heard of in years, and they'd started with pints at the local near to Bart's. Well and good, but then Jenny McKee had led them off to an Irish pub she liked where there was an open-mike session, Irish music with people sitting in and playing along as they liked, and after a few more pints even the most self-consciously English patron was roaring along with the chorus of "The Wild Rover".

Sherlock sprinted up a broad shallow flight of steps and John doggedly followed, taking the steps three at a time to Sherlock's four. He'd had fish and chips, quite a few pints, some sort of dessert at the pub that involved chocolate, cream, and Guinness, and--his final and most grievous mistake--a whiskey. At least one whiskey. Maybe two. And then come home to a flatmate who was wide awake and sawing the violin, although he'd at least played a few quieter pieces after John complained.

It wasn't Sherlock's repertoire that was stuck in John's head as he struggled to keep up with his long-legged stork of a flatmate, nor was it "The Wild Rover". It was another tune he'd recognized, something his Gran used to sing.

_Too-ree-oo-ree-ay ah, Too-ree-oo-ree laddy-o_

_I have stockings of silk, shoes of fine green leather  
Combs to buckle my hair and a ring for every finger_

They burst into an open square and scared so many pigeons into flight that John nearly had a heart attack. The hoodie-wearing boy they had been pursuing somehow collided with a couple of frightened birds, twisted his ankle, and fell. With a gleeful shout, Sherlock leaped to spraddle the boy, planting one hand on his chest. John slowed to a grateful limp and tried to even out his breathing before coming up and checking out the boy's ankle.

The stupid song was still running through his head while they were in the station talking to the sergeant. There'd been a girl, well, woman, to be fair, not with their lot but listening to the music and sometimes singing along. Shorter than him (rather a nice change), red hair done up with combs, lovely silky stockings and striking, emerald green shoes. He'd made a joke about visiting the Emerald City, and she'd laughed. He didn't often notice jewelry on a woman, but hers caught his eye: The combs in her hair looked like tiny sprays of flowers; rings gleamed on every finger, and her nail polish matched her shoes.

He'd chatted her up and she'd smiled and licked the foam from her lips after he bought her a pint of Guinness. And yet he'd wound up back at Baker Street, in his solitary bed, listening to his flatmate invent new systems of tonality at three a.m.

_Too-ree-oo-ree-ay ah, Too-ree-oo-ree laddy-o_

_Feather beds are soft, painted rooms are bonny  
But I would trade them all for to go with my love Johnny_

He followed Sherlock up the stairs to 221B, drawn less by the long legs and flapping coat than by the smell of the takeaway Sherlock was carrying. It seemed like lately he was always running behind Sherlock, literally and metaphorically. He was always trying to catch up, mentally, physically, running after a man with absurdly long legs and an extraordinarily fleet mind.

Sherlock dropped the takeaway bag on the kitchen table and disappeared with a swirl of his coat. Wearily, John took off his jacket, started two cups of tea, and began to unpack their dinner. Why *was* he running after Sherlock, anyway? Why wasn't he settling down, cooking dinner with a wife, running after a toddler instead? It couldn't be any harder than this. Lots of men were first-time fathers at his age nowadays--hell, lots of women were first-time mothers, too, it wasn't like he had to marry a child bride if he wanted kids. Did he want kids? He'd always thought he had.

_Too-ree-oo-ree-ay ah, Too-ree-oo-ree laddy-o_

_Some say he's dark, but I say he's bonny  
Fairest of them all is my handsome, winsome Johnny_

Sherlock came back, already changed into his dressing gown, and accepted a cup of tea with a flicker of eyebrows for thanks. He and John both loaded their plates in silence and plopped down at either end of the table, ready to eat.

That niggling tune still danced through John's head. It felt like Sherlock's feet and his legs and everything with rhythm had beat time to it. His heart was still jigging in time; his chewing was starting to entrain with it. It repeated mercilessly in his brain.

_Some say he's dark, but I say he's bonny  
Fairest of them all is my handsome, winsome Johnny_

John looked at Sherlock over the rim of his mug. Sherlock was engrossed in folding a pancake around pieces of crispy duck according to an arcane pattern known only to himself. He had a spot of plum sauce glistening at the corner of his mouth; his lips were slightly parted, the tip of his tongue just visible touching his upper lip as he folded and rolled the pancake with long dexterous fingers. Even lowered in concentration, Sherlock's eyes were remarkable, the lids almost transparent like rice paper, their unusual tilt even more prominent than usual. His hair curled over his forehead like the fringe on a Renaissance angel.

_Too-ree-oo-ree-ay ah, Too-ree-oo-ree laddy-o_

Sherlock suddenly looked up and met John's eyes, and John was caught. Caught in the fiercest blush he'd felt since his first time getting his pants off with a girl, and he'd come all over himself before he got anywhere near putting it in. Caught in the act of--what? Looking at his flatmate? Checking out his flatmate? His tall, thin, long-legged, flat-chested, unmistakably male flatmate...

John chewed very slowly and deliberately until he could swallow without fear of choking. "More tea?"

"Thanks." One corner of Sherlock's wide mobile mouth curled up, but he said nothing else.

When all the containers were empty except for pools of grease at the bottom--when he condescended to eat, Sherlock frequently had a prodigious appetite--John, of course, began clearing up, perhaps with a little more alacrity than usual. Sherlock, of course, simply got up and left the table, and shortly thereafter John heard the flushing of the toilet, followed by the disjointed scraping notes of the violin being tuned. It was only when, coming out of the bathroom himself, he noticed he was humming along with the music that he realized exactly what Sherlock was playing.

"That--that's the song! That's that song! The one--"

"The one you heard in the pub last night, which you haven't been able to get out of your head ever since. You've been humming it ever since, at odd moments." Sherlock sauntered over, violin and bow still dangling from his hands, and craned over John with that one-cornered smile on his face. "You've far from perfect pitch--a good ear, but no vocal training--but I recognized it nonetheless." His eyes dropped half-closed as, to John's chagrin (and not a little amazement), he sang the first verse, in a breathy light baritone.

"I know who is sick, I know who is sorry  
I know who I'll kiss, but the Lord knows who I'll marry."

Before he could change his mind, John cupped Sherlock's face in his hands, thumbs landing unerringly on those model-quality cheekbones, and kissed him.

Tea with too much sugar. Chinese spices, grease and plum sauce. Slick warmth and a hint of something like very fine unsweetened dark chocolate. Sherlock. Kissing Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. John kissing Sherlock. Sherlock kissing John.

John broke the kiss, looked at Sherlock. Sherlock's arms had come round him, still holding bow and violin. His eyebrows lifted inquiringly. So did both corners of his mouth.

"You bloody wanker," John said, grinning, and kissed Sherlock again.

_I know who is sick, I know who is sorry  
I know who I'll kiss, oh, but the Lord knows who I'll marry_

_Too-ree-oo-ree-ay ah, Too-ree-oo-ree laddy-o  
Too-ree-oo-ree-ay, Too-mah-lex-fal too-rah-laddy-o_


End file.
